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Krista stopped in her tracks. She held her breath.
More lightning cracked across the sky.
Then came the sounds of more moaning. More grunting.
Krista continued forward as the rain and wind continued to howl outside. The bungalow suddenly filled with a sinful amalgamation of sensual sounds
, of grunting and groaning and hissing and moaning, almost as if in surround-sound.
Curiosity got the best of her. And, instead of whirring toward the exit, ready to brave the storm, Krista treaded forward, toward the seductive resonances.
She peered around into the doorway, and breathed in the sweet funk of sex and hot seeds and stained sheets.
Right there, in the center of the last room was where sin greeted her. There was a huge circular platform bed. Its walls covered in mirrors, mere reflections of sweat-slick bodies. Skin slapped against skin and, like tribal drums, the echoing sounds of moaning filled the room.
And then came the lascivious sound of sucking—dick sucking, toe sucking, sucking, sucking . . . and more sucking. High-heels and swaying breasts and bouncing-asses and hard dicks and chiseled nakedness was all around her.
Krista’s eyes batted in surprise.
Realization dawned. This was . . . oh, God . . .
A sexy, tanned Latina with heart-shaped lips, big breasts and an even bigger ass was on all fours, her skin shimmering in sweat and glitter lotion. Behind her was a Nigerian hunk, fucking her, pounding her, deeply, while her face was buried between the thighs of a thick-hipped East Indian woman. The East Indian had thick dark lashes and dark hair that fanned out over the white bed sheet. Her breasts were swollen. Her areolas were dark and almost as long and thick as a pinky.
Krista watched on in stunned amazement as another man, with his sun-kissed tan, hovered over the East Indian woman and dipped his head, sucking a nipple into his greedy wet mouth, while lightly pinching her other nipple. The woman mewled out as his engorged cock bounced up and down over her forehead.
His dick was big, shamelessly begging to be stroked. To be sucked. To unleash a thick load into a warm hole, someone’s mouth, or slick cunt. Krista fixed her gaze on the thick tendons of his throat. A rivulet of sweat slid down his corded neck as he gyrated his hips in a deep, lazy movement.
Another woman—a Brazilian—took to the same bed, her knees sinking into the plush mattress as she crawled in back of Mr. Sun-Kissed and shoved her face in between his muscled hamstrings. She licked the back of his balls. Sucked them into her mouth. Then she brazenly pulled open the smooth muscled globes of his ass. And she licked him there. Again and again, she licked and licked. And each time her tongue laved him there, stroked over his hole, his dick jerked.
God no. What kind of nasty shit is going on in here? Krista pressed a hand to her heart and then clutched at her rain-soaked chest and frowned.
He must be bisexual, Krista thought. Because, in her thinking, no straight man, no real man, wanted his ass licked. And he damn sure wasn’t letting anyone fuck him in it with fingers, toys, or anything else. But here this manly-looking man was, hunched over letting some woman tongue-fuck him. She was convinced he was down-low and nasty. Sorry. A real man was never letting anyone or anything go anywhere near his ass. Period.
Krista’s stomach churned, and all the pineapple chunks she’d consumed earlier in the day burned like acid. But she didn’t look away. No, no. She swallowed instead. Still, she knew she should turn away. Knew she should scurry back out the way she’d come. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to. And she didn’t know if she should be more afraid of the hurricane-like storm outside or frightened of the sensuality and carnal energy that swirled haphazardly around her.
She didn’t know if any of them were aware that someone was watching them. If they did, they didn’t seem concerned that prying eyes—her prying eyes—might be on them.
All she knew was—
“Are you enjoying the view?” came a low, deep voice from behind her, vibrating its way up her spine.
Krista whirled around. Panic hit her square in the chest as she looked up into the searing gaze of a half-naked man, dark chocolate skin sliding over thick muscle, shining from coconut oil. There was an island lilt to his voice, she thought. He was well over six feet, and his body was nearly as wide as the doorframe.
A sleek tattoo of a panther wrapped around the hunk’s torso with its head propped up on his right shoulder, its golden-colored eyes staring at her. And he wore a loincloth and loads of hot sensuality. Nothing more.
Krista shivered.
Where had he come from?
He regarded her with a smirk.
“Yes. No. I mean. I-I-I’m drenched,” Krista stammered, looking into his eyes. They were beautiful eyes too. Deep, searing brown eyes. He wore his hair in long dreadlocks, tied back into a ponytail that brushed against his lower back, the sides and back of his head neatly faded low.
“. . . needed to get out from the rain,” Krista offered sheepishly. Once again, she’d been caught . . . this time spying. Watching lovers indulge in carnal pleasure.
What in the hell was wrong with her?
Was this some newfound thing? Watching, eavesdropping, like some perverted, sex-starved heathen. She’d never been known to do any nasty shit like this. Hell, she didn’t even watch porn. She found nothing remotely enticing about watching some staged-fucking. But, oh God, there was nothing scripted here. It was all live and direct and . . .
